Mumbai. To reach it, you have to write it. The photography could not. (I could not)
you are going to the places where i was.
you are going to meet people who i know.
i am happy and sad
but with hope
you find something special in them as i did.
when you are back, tell me your story.
My dear Maria,
What to do with the canvas you once offered me? Especially me, my sweet, the one who never knows what to do in front of a white surface, a white landscape, in front of any possibility to come? Meanwhile I look at things, not the invisibles ones, but the ones we can touch, even if briefly, with our eyes and hands. All these things without value. Minor things. A piece of a handwritten paper, for an example. The sunflower next to the window. Some book passages. Or remembering the sea. Everything is so tiny. You would say that memory is not touchable. And I disagree. Have you ever tried to lay your body over a memory. It is almost unbearable, but, oh!, how to live without it? I have an inclination towards memories and things with no value. For me, they have said enough.
it’s hidden flow there. swim and vanish.
feel the sea everywhere.
through a grief on her face
i can see
a new canvas to paint